A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)

 

We air kiss, and she departs, like a Category 5 tornado that comes and goes in three minutes, doing more damage in that short window than you could ever fathom possible.

 

I am hollow.

 

Empty.

 

I pick at the rest of my salad and finish off the green bottle of sparkling water. Then I signal to the waiter and order a three-scoop hot fudge sundae. Mom would be horrified.

 

And that’s why I do it.

 

As the waiter departs, I see Drew, sitting discreetly at the restaurant’s entrance in a club chair, pretending to be looking at his phone. All the security guys who’ve been following me since Daddy was elected to national office have this uniformity to them. Clearly trained with the same basic techniques, once you know what they are supposed to do, you can pick them out in a crowd in about two seconds. They’re so obvious.

 

If you know what to look for.

 

My sundae’s delivered and the candied pecans on top are an extra treat. The first bite nearly makes me moan. My appetite comes roaring back and for the first time in two days, I feel a tiny bit normal. People around me are talking about bills and corporate mergers, about someone getting married and a child with autism, the wisps of conversations so average.

 

No one is discussing slut-shaming. Or group sex. No political sabotage. No gang rape. Given my limited experience since coming home from the Island, I feel like they’re the weirdos, living sheltered lives where their problems are nothing compared to mine.

 

“Care for some company?” Drew’s voice startles me and I drop my loaded spoon. It hits the edge of the sundae bowl and flies backwards, plopping into my lap, staining my white pants.

 

“Thanks,” I snap. “And no. Can’t I stuff my face with ice cream in peace?”

 

“Not on my watch.” He sits down and observes as I pat the ice cream and hot fudge off my pants.

 

“Quit staring.”

 

“It’s my job to look at you.”

 

“You sound more and more like a creepy stalker.”

 

The waiter comes over and asks Drew if he’d like something to drink. Drew orders coffee.

 

“You can get your own table.”

 

“I have something to say.”

 

“You’ve said more than enough, Drew. You’re my bodyguard. I get that. I have to tolerate it, because for some screwed up reason, Daddy decided to hire you and your company. But I do not have to agree to let you break into my personal space and sit here like we’re old friends having a lovely afternoon lunch.”

 

“If this were a normal client relationship, I’d agree.”

 

“I don’t need you to agree. Just follow my orders.”

 

He leans back in the chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket. As he stretches his arms along the chair, I see his gun holster on his left. Drew’s right-handed.

 

“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen the resemblance in you to your father, Lindsay.” His mouth twitches with amusement. I look at his lips. Those were on mine yesterday. The memory of his heavy, muscled arms around me, my body curled in his lap, makes me warm.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Tormenting me.”

 

He arches one eyebrow. “I’m protecting you.”

 

“You’re making my life so much harder.”

 

“Why?”

 

The tears start in the base of my throat, a tightening I know will turn into a full-blown crying jag if I don’t do something. One giant scoop of ice cream later, and at least my mouth is shocked by the cold.

 

“Need a shovel?” he jokes. I know he’s trying to navigate the landmine of this mess. But the comment just makes me swallow and set the spoon aside.

 

“Take care of the bill for me. I’m leaving.” I stand and coldly walk away. Security teams often do handle these details, though I’ve never acted like this before. Drew’s ease and familiarity with me drives me insane.

 

And then there was that kiss.

 

A kiss I want more of.

 

By the time he catches up to me, I’m walking along a side street where the water laps at the shore. Mom loves this part of our sleepy little exclusive town, where it’s a crime to be homeless but an even bigger crime to be out of fashion. I’m sure crying and blubbering with hot fudge stains on your white pants is worse than either of those.

 

Drew stays ten feet behind me.

 

I ache for him. I ache for answers—real answers—to questions I’m pretty sure I can’t ask. And if I ask them, I won’t get a straight answer anyway, so why bother? Has it really only been two days since I’ve been home? How can two days be so jam-packed full of so much horror?

 

“Mom just told me the rape counselor at the emergency room sold a bunch of lies to a tabloid for six figures,” I say, staring at the water. It rises up and catches the sunlight, then glimmers off the hull of a boat docked to the little marina beside the set of shops.

 

“I know.”

 

“You know everything, don’t you?”